


A Knock on the Door

by LadyAJ_13



Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Discovery, Domestic, Multi, Season/Series 02, Thursday family, sort of time, tea-drinking-interruptus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21900208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: The stupid thing is, they’re not even doing anything when the doorbell rings. They’re having tea sat at the dining table. Joan was telling them a story from work.But the doorbell rings and they fall silent, eyes flicking back and forth. Joan stands up to answer it, light on her stockinged feet. She peers through the spy hole, rears back, and tiptoes to the table. “It’s my dad!” she hisses.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541815
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	A Knock on the Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For the wonderful Jasmiinitee, happy Christmas from your secret santa! Not sure this has as much angst as you might have been hoping for, but I hope you like it all the same.
> 
> If you're following the series, this fits soon after the first fic. If you're not, just know that these three are together.
> 
> In other news - they've made the Disaster Trio an actual relationship tag! :D

The stupid thing is, they’re not even doing anything when the doorbell rings. They’re having tea sat at the dining table. Joan was telling them a story from work.

But the doorbell rings and they fall silent, eyes flicking back and forth. Joan stands up to answer it, light on her stockinged feet. She peers through the spy hole, rears back, and tiptoes to the table. “It’s my dad!” she hisses.

If it was _anyone_ else, thinks Peter, as he shoots to his feet, hand reaching out to catch Morse’s chair before it clatters to the floor. _Anyone_ else and they might have a chance of explaining this away. But Thursday knows all three of them too well, and there’s no easy reason for him and Morse to be in his daughter’s house of a Saturday morning. He tips his tea down the sink.

“Get in the bedroom,” Joan says, pushing them both as the bell rings again.

“You're not in,” Morse suggests.

Peter stares at him incredulously. The lights are on and the radio is singing away to itself. The only way Joan could look _more_ in would be if she was cleaning the bleeding windows.

“Joan?” Thursday calls through the door.

He and Morse trip into the bedroom where the covers are still in disarray, and Joan pulls the door tightly shut behind them. If only she lived in a house, he thinks wildly; a back door they could escape through. He glances at the window, but it’s enough of a drop to be a risk. He pulls the sheets straight instead, kicking their shoes out of sight – not that it will really matter if they’re found in here.

“Dad,” they hear. “What brings you here?”

“Just checking in.” Thursday sounds relaxed, his home and weekend voice, but it still stiffens Peter’s spine. “Make sure everything is ticking along here. Let me in, love.” They hear footsteps in the other room, the door closing, the change in tone as they head from carpeted lounge to kitchen lino. “Very nice. 'S'pect you'll like getting it all done up the way you want it.” A chair is dragged out from the table as Joan hums. “Well, put the kettle on.”

“I was actually just going out-“

“Time for a quick cuppa, I’m sure, it’s only half nine.”

There’s a pause, then a rush of water, the clink of cups, and in the background the low purr of a kettle starting to boil. Peter looks at Morse; his eyes are wide, and it’s almost funny – the way they’re both frozen in place, ears pricked – except there’s nothing funny about this situation.

And then footsteps.

“Give myself the tour, I suppose…“

They stare at each other wildly, because the flat isn't that big and Thursday's standing in most of it currently. He's got a choice of bathroom or bedroom, and if he chooses the latter he'll come face to face with two of his red-handed underlings.

Morse jabs his head towards the wardrobe and Peter spins. Really? But they won’t fit under the bed, and there’s literally nowhere else. He opens the door and steps in, wincing at the quiet rustle of clothes on hangers as he pushes as deep as possible. Now would be a fine time to find Narnia, he thinks, but there’s just the press of wood against his shoulder blades when he turns. Morse follows him, his back to Peter’s front – barely enough space – and pulls the door to just in time.

“Dad! No, I haven’t-“

“Think I’ve seen your unmade bed before, Joanie.”

The bedroom door opens and Peter feels Morse’s breathing stop. Footsteps cross the room to the window. “Nice view.”

Peter breathes shallowly. Morse is leaning back, like being centimetres further from the door will help keep them hidden, so Peter’s nose is practically buried in his hair. Every breath ruffles it enough to tickle.

“Why are you watching me like a hawk? Go sort out that tea before it’s stewed.”

A light padding of feet away, and then a heavier step following. Morse breathes again, relaxing against Peter -

And his shoulder knocks a hanger, sending out a metallic scrape.

The heavier step stops.

It’s stupid, juvenile, but Peter screws his eyes shut as if the old childhood belief is true; if I can’t see you, you can’t see me. The door opens, light seeping around his closed eyelids. He presses further into the dresses and darkness, drowning in fabric, shoulders fused to wood – luckily, it’s made of stern stuff, or he’d break through and tumble right out the back.

“Morse?!”

“S- sir,” Morse stutters, going rigid.

“ _Morse..._ What are you doing – _oh_. Right. I see… Well.” Thursday harrumphs, clearing his throat, and Peter winces. “That explains the spare cup in the sink.”

“Sir?”

It doesn’t, Peter thinks frantically, that was mine. Joan must have re-used Morse’s for you.

“Um,” Morse adds. His hands curl into fists, brushing against Peter's trousers, then straighten out again.

“Dad?!” Joan must skid back into the room, because he hears a thump as the door bangs into the wall.

“Found a little stowaway, Joanie.”

He can’t help it. He has to open his eyes. His view is mostly hidden by winter woollens, but he can just catch Joan’s expression; the horror on her face, the minute flick of understanding when she realises – somehow – Morse has had it but Peter _hasn’t_. He’s not seen him. Crowded in like this, with the way the light falls – Peter's out of sight, blocked behind Morse.

“Oh,” she says.

“Can’t say I’m pleased to find him here, but you don’t have to hide him in the bloody wardrobe, Joan.” He turns back to Morse. “Get out then.”

“Uh…”

“Give him a minute Dad,” Joan yelps, grabbing on to Thursday’s arm. “You, uh, gave him a fright like that. Let him...” she trails off, waving her free hand as she pulls him from the room. As soon as they’re gone, Morse twists until he’s facing Peter, and burrows his head into the crook of his neck. Peter finds his arms come up automatically, hugging him.

“You’ve got to go,” he whispers.

“Shit,” Morse gasps with feeling.

Completely inappropriate laughter bubbles up in Peter’s throat, and he swallows quickly, stifling it. “Shit indeed,” he drawls into an ear instead, squeezing and letting go. “Could have been worse.” He gives him a little push, and Morse steps obediently backwards, out of their hiding place. “Could be me on the firing line,” he jokes. Could have been both of them, and wouldn’t that have been a right pig’s ear of a situation? If they thought there was no explanation for them to be in Joan's kitchen, the two of them plastered together breathing in her mothballs doesn't bear thinking about.

Peter grabs the wardrobe door, pulling it towards him, and just before it closes their eyes catch. Shock melts from Morse’s face, replaced for a shining second with mirth. He can’t help a grin in return. Look at them. Him closing himself in a damn wardrobe while Morse goes out and plays the rumbled boyfriend.

Morse can ask Thursday to keep it quiet; it won’t be all over the nick that he's seeing Joan. He'll say it’s worry over special treatment – nothing weird about that, except that half the coppers there already see Morse as Thursday’s second son.

“So Morse,” he hears from the kitchen. Thursday’s got over his shock, got his no-nonsense, office weekday tone back, and Peter buries his helpless smile in his hands before shifting carefully to sit on the wardrobe floor. He might be here a while. “What are your intentions with my daughter? And why didn’t you just bloody _tell_ me, you two?”

\--

“We should invite Morse to dinner this year,” Fred says, leaning over Win to grab his tea mug. She huffs, waiting until he’s out the way to continue writing the Christmas food shop list.

“If you want love,” she says absent-mindedly, scrawling down various vegetables. “But I thought we’d agreed just family this year.”

“Well.” He bites into a biscuit. “He is family.”

“I know you coppers are all men at arms together, but he's not actually related-“

“Close enough.” He shifts in his seat, and she narrows her eyes at him. He’s doesn’t fidget unless there’s something he’s trying not to tell her. Or unless there’s something he wants her to push him into revealing. She lays down her pen, and folds her arms.

“Fred?”

“I promised Joanie…”

“ _Fred._ ”

He clears his throat, looking away, before twisting back – and she knows she’s won. Not exactly a tough nut to crack, Fred Thursday, or at least not with her. That's what thirty years of marriage will do to you. “I have a feeling we might be getting a son in law soon.”

She frowns. “Morse?”

“Yes, Morse, who else?”

“A son in law?”

Fred sighs, putting his mug down on the carpet. She frowns again, but shelves that little lesson for later. “I thought you liked Morse.”

“I do, I just… Joan doesn’t, does she?”

“I bloody well hope she does, considering I found him crouched in her wardrobe yesterday morning.”

Her jaw drops. “Her _wardrobe?!”_

He laughs, slapping one hand on his thigh and shaking the settee. “They looked at me just like you, now!” he gasps, eyes shining with tears. “I had to be all stern, but-“ he cuts himself off with another chuckle.

“But what about Peter?” she asks finally. Then claps a hand over her mouth.

“Peter?” he manages, wiping at his eyes.

“Nothing,” she says. “Wardrobe?” she repeats, but she’s reacted unusually, and it’s thrown him out of his humour. His copper nose is out, twitching, and won’t be pushed back in.

“Peter who?”

She slumps; the cat’s out of the bag, and what does it matter now anyway, when it’s obviously over? “Jakes,” she says. “Joanie was dating him a couple of weeks ago. I called and he answered – he was all over the place, bless him, think he forgot where he was.”

“Joan dating Peter?! And I thought she had no time for coppers.” He stares at the wall in disbelief. “He never let on. Wonder if Morse knows.”

Win leans into him, and he raises an arm for her to curl up underneath. “Maybe that’s why she kept so quiet about him.”

“They did ask me not to tell anyone, especially at the station.”

She pats his stomach, before grabbing her pen again and resting the pad on his thigh. “There we are then. Morse as one more for Christmas. Poor Peter, he doesn’t have anyone does he?”

Fred knows her too well, and reads where her thoughts are going before she quite gets there herself. “You can’t invite Joan’s ex to Christmas dinner with her and her new squeeze, especially with his boss watching on.”

“I know,” she sighs, jotting down walnuts, sugared almonds, tangerines. She taps the pen. “I just hate to think of him all alone.”

“He'll be all right.”

“Is he friends with Morse?”

Fred looks at her, before shifting away to grab his pipe. “I don't rightly know,” he answers honestly. “They're not like they used to be at least. Not sure I'd go so far as to say friends, but they've left off each other's throats.” He packs tobacco in the bowl and lights a match. “I'd rather they didn't have reason to jump back into it,” he adds darkly.

“If Morse is worried about how Peter will take it-"

“He'd do well to be worried, if it came down to a fight, my money'd be on Jakes.”

“Fred,” she admonishes, hitting him on the arm. She smirks at the look he gives her as he pulls on the pipe, flame catching, and shakes out the match. “You should invite him,” she adds, casually. His mouth drops open. “Fair's fair,” she explains. “It'll look odd if you just invite Morse, not all your waifs and strays. It'd put Morse in a bit of a bind.”

“You're a devious woman sometimes, Win.” Fred's tone is surprised, admiring, and it sounds like sneaking around on their parents, like rushed kisses on London streets. It brings a blush to her cheeks. It could be entertaining, she thinks. But really she just doesn't want him sitting home alone on Christmas. And he could do with a bit of feeding up. Young men these days, they’re nothing but skin and bone. Sam would be the same, left to his own devices.

“Will you? Invite him?”

If Peter doesn’t want to come, he'll just decline the invitation. If he comes, Joan can keep it together for a hour or two while they eat, and if they've kept it quiet enough that he doesn't know about her and Morse, then there's no reason for Morse to be any more awkward than he would be at the station, or on one of their weekly trips down the Turf Tavern. And she'll be able to get a good meal in all three of them, and put her mind at rest.

Fred raises an eyebrow, bemused. “All right then."

She smiles, and rests once more on his shoulder as he puffs placidly away at his pipe. She breathes in the familiar smoke. It's become her smell of safety, of home.

She worries now that Joan's out on her own. Can't help it. She's used to being a copper's wife, but that means she knows what happens on the streets – even Oxford's streets – in the dark. Peter and Morse are both good boys. And they've been good to Joan, getting her home safe all these months. She'll always worry about her babies, and it seems she's destined to worry about Morse too as he becomes part of their family, because he attracts trouble like a magnet. But him and Joan have found each other, and she's glad; they have someone to lean on, someone to take half the burden.

Privately, though, she worries about Peter too. She knows Fred would call her daft and say the sergeant can look after himself. Certainly he's always seemed older, darker than Morse, but in a way that makes her want to sit him down and bring him a mug of tea and a biscuit. Fred doesn't see it, he's just Jakes to him. But his voice, that time she'd called. It was why she'd agreed not to tell Thursday. There was something broken in it. She'd hoped being with Joan would smooth over the jagged edges.

And it's never nice to be replaced.

She sighs, pressing her nose to Fred's jumper. Christmas dinner will just have to do.

–

They're in the middle of the station when Thursday asks the question. There's been a token effort to decorate for Christmas, just a few holly sprigs dotted around, somehow managing to make the space look bleaker. They both double take, and Peter's glad it's a file he's holding, rather than anything breakable, because his fingers just... let go.

“Uh-”

“Win'd be disappointed if you turned her down.”

There's a twinkle in Thursday's eye, but Peter has to play this straight, he can't look like he knows anything at all. “I've got other plans sir,” he says. “But thank you for the invite. Please pass along my thanks to Mrs Thursday, too.”

“I also can't make it-”

“Morse,” Thursday remonstrates. “Two hours, give her a chance to feed you a roast and a pudding, it'll make her year.” Peter turns away, flipping open that file again, but the shapes on the page aren't resolving themselves into any meaning. “She's already bought the crackers.”

He looks up, and Thursday's hand is on Morse's shoulder. He looks down again. He'd thought, maybe, the two of them. Not ideal of course, but Joan was always going to have to go home. He knows Morse doesn’t get on with his family, so they could have set themselves up for the day, he could've tried his hand at roasting something. Put Morse on vegetable peeling duty and kissed away his complaints.

“I-”

No point with just him. He'll get a couple of sausages instead. Like usual.

“You too, Jakes, I'm not taking no. Don't make me make it an order.” His head snaps up to Thursday picking at the stitching on his hat, before putting it on and wrapping his coat around him. He adds a scarf at the door, and pauses while they're both still gaping. “Mind how you go.”

They stare after him in silence. “Did that...?” asks Morse, when the coast is clear.

“Yes,” Peter replies faintly.

“We're having Christmas dinner at the Thursdays'.”

“You, me, Thursday, Mrs Thursday, Sam... and Joan.” He falls into his chair, knees giving out, and reaches automatically for his cigarettes. He doesn't light one, just plays with the box, opening and shutting it rhythmically.

Morse makes a low noise that might be a chuckle, or might be a groan. “It's all right for you,” he hisses, stooping like he's tying a shoelace but really just taking the opportunity to lower his voice further, against the coppers at the other end of the room. “I have to be the boyfriend!”

“You are the-” he cuts himself off at Morse's look. “You know what I mean.”

“What do we take?”

“What?”

“Take, you know, hand over when we turn up.” Morse waves his hands in a vague approximation of what is probably meant to resemble a gift. “Wine, or – or flowers or something.”

“Why do you think I'd know?”

“Because you're....” Morse shakes his head and trails off, but Peter grins, leaning forward on his hands, bringing himself just slightly into Morse's space. He pulls a cigarette out and holds it between his lips, watches the way Morse's eyes drift to it and get stuck.

“Because I'm suave and sophisticated, right?” He lights a match, takes the first draught of smoke and lets it out in a spiralling twist to the ceiling. “Debonair. Get invited to all the ladies' Christmas-”

“You're saying you're not, then?” Morse raises an eyebrow, and Peter realises he walked straight into that one.

“Either way, we can't hardly show up with a shared gift,” he huffs, standing up and grabbing the file again. “Just get them something and I'll do the same.”

–

Peter settles on wine in the end. Morse went for whiskey, one he knows Thursday drinks, and some flowers for Mrs Thursday. Peter drops more than he would usually on his bottle, because he doesn’t know wine so all he has to go by is the label and the price – and while it’s just a gift so he doesn’t seem rude (not like he’s going in trying to win them over, possible parents in law) he can’t help but have that niggling in the back of his brain that wants to impress. But then Thursday also knows what he earns, so it’s not like he can splash too much cash without being suspicious.

God, this whole thing is giving him a headache.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joan fusses with Morse’s tie – they’ve both been fussing over him this morning, rumpled is his default state and he keeps slipping back into it despite Peter's ironing skills – and steps over to him. She lays one hand on his shoulder, and he grasps it, bringing it down to hold tight. It's not what he thought their first Christmas would be, the three of them all a bit anxious and jumpy.

“Absolutely,” he promises, and she smiles sadly, like she knows he’s saying what she wants to hear.

He is fine, though. Mostly. It’s a weird situation they’ve got themselves into, but in all honesty, he’d rather watch them leave and then follow, than end up spending the day alone. If it had been him and Morse at a loose end, they’d have made do – but while he’s spent every Christmas alone since the age of eighteen, this year his usual routine of sausage, chips and Christmas telly would have seemed strangely stark. Empty.

“Right, we’d best get going.” Joan grabs her purse and flits over, pressing a kiss hard to his lips. Morse grins and wipes at the lipstick mark for him, following it up with a kiss of his own, hand warm as it cradles his head. And then they’re gone, Joan’s heels clattering down the steps and Morse starting the engine of the car they’ve borrowed.

Peter’s going to walk, and he lets them get out of sight before grabbing his scarf, coat, and cigarettes. At least it’s not raining.

\--

There’s something strange about the Thursday house all ready for Christmas, when he associates it so strongly with work. The shape of the tree in the window as he walks up the familiar path, the lights burning in all corners despite it being gone eleven on a Tuesday. He knocks, knuckles tender with cold, and can’t help grinning when Sam answers the door in pyjamas and a tinsel crown.

“Jakes! Dad roped you into it after all, then? Come in.”

“All right, Sam? Santa been good to you this year?” Sam pulls a face as Peter ruffles his hair, and ducks away to hang up Peter’s coat and scarf. He’s known Sam for years, albeit never very well, but an ongoing joke is Peter ribbing him about his age. It's only when Sam stands up properly that Peter realises – he may have to give up on the gag if the kid is going to keep growing like that.

“Better than to you, I’d wager.”

He thinks of his morning wake up, and blames his flush on the heat of the house. Santa's been kinder to him this year than ever before.

He divests himself of his wet shoes before following Sam through to the lounge. Morse and Joan sit together on the sofa, Mrs Thursday next to Joan, and Thursday’s settled in the chair. Sam falls to his knees next to the tree, and Peter hovers.

“Sit down love,” Mrs Thursday says, springing up.

“Oh no, you-“

“Nonsense,” she pushes him onto the cushion next to Joan, and he laughs inwardly realising they’re back in their old pub formation – one, two, three. “Tea? Something bubbly?”

“Er-“

“Both,” she settles, “it's Christmas,” and heads into the kitchen.

“Mince pie?” Thursday offers a plate, and Peter takes one. It gives him something to do with his hands, especially after he realises how crumbly the pastry is, and he struggles to catch them rather than ruin the carpet.

Joan hops up to change the record, and muted Christmas carols give way to something he recognises. Classical. It's what he got Morse for Christmas and watched him unwrap this morning, played through for the first time as they ate toast in their slippers, and he and Joan smirked at the way Morse tuned out of their conversation. It must have been packed up in the bags of presents and brought along – because he doesn’t think it’s to the Thursday family taste.

“This is a good one,” Morse mumbles, and when Joan sits down again she’s marginally closer to Peter; close enough that the fold of her skirt touches his trousers. Mrs Thursday hands him a glass of fizzy wine, setting a tea cup at his elbow, before perching on Thursday’s lap with a smile that shows her seat really doesn’t need handing back. He relaxes into the sofa cushions instead, watching Sam mess around with the packaging of a new gadget. So this is what a family Christmas is like.

“Oh!” he remembers. “Here,” he hands the wine bottle over to Mrs Thursday, and she takes it and turns it to read the label.

“Peter, that's lovely, you didn't need to. Such a pretty design, isn’t it Dad?”

–

The food is soon ready, and they all take a seat at the table. Laden with plates and glasses and Christmas crackers it's a bit of a squash for six, but Thursday and Mrs Thursday take each end, and he's next to Sam looking across at Joan. He'd like to nudge at her ankles, tangle them together, but the fear of bumping Thursday instead keeps his socked feet firmly under his chair.

It's a surprisingly convivial meal, given the circumstances. The Thursdays have always been welcoming, even if they've not taken to him in quite the same way they tucked Morse under their wing. But he thinks, out of all of them, he's probably Sam's favourite and the thought makes him grin, dropping sarcastic comments in his ear throughout the conversation that has Sam snorting the one glass of wine he'd been allowed all over the tablecloth.

Mrs Thursday presses second helpings onto them, then reveals the home-made pudding. It would be rude to refuse, and by the time he's facing down the cheese course he's more than a little uncomfortable. He accepts coffee instead, and when Sam disappears back to his presents he takes the opportunity to stand up – and stop his belt digging in – by offering to wash up.

Morse joins him, and he knows Morse hates drying, so he takes the tea towel himself and leaves Morse the sink and the bubbles. He's flushed – either with the good food, the wine, or the heat of the water – and that's always a good look for him. He wants nothing more than to press him back into the counter and steal a kiss. Maybe two. Maybe box him in, trail his lips wherever the mood takes, and leave off with wet hand prints littering his own body.

The Thursday are all in the lounge, but it's still the worst kind of dangerous, so he settles instead for knocking their elbows together as he takes the next clean plate. “Happy Christmas,” he murmurs in Morse's ear, and lets Morse nudge him to the side with one hip, to better access the next stack of dirty dishes.

“You too,” Morse whispers back. “I'm glad-” He cuts himself off and Peter looks at him quizzically. He shrugs. “This is weird, I know. But I'm glad we're here.”

Peter grins back, and takes another plate in silence.

–

“I should be making a move,” he says later, chores done, when they traipse back into the living room. The Thursdays are sprawled and settled in for the afternoon, Queen's speech just finishing up on the telly, and he thinks it's probably time he took a step back and got out of their hair.

“I'll drop you,” Morse offers, slightly too quickly. Luckily it's almost dark outside, the glow from the street lights making the frost shimmer on the pavement, giving them a solid reason. “Joan too,” he adds, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “If you want?”

He's all rumpled again, Peter thinks. Shirt splashed with washing up water, tie askew and hair every which way from his own hand. He could have stolen those kisses, and no one would be any the wiser. Joan's not much better, all legs and arms as she gathers herself up from the sofa, mascara smudged from where she'd rubbed at it earlier. He wants nothing more than the two of them, curled up with him. But Joan is among the bosom of her family, and Christmas is a time for family. He knows they'll have her room ready upstairs, for her to stay if she wants to.

“Yeah,” she says, and his heart leaps. “Thanks Morse.”

It takes longer than he thinks it should to say goodbyes when they'll no doubt all see each other again in a matter of days. He accepts the food parcel Mrs Thursday shoves on him, and smirks when he sees identical packages pressed on Morse and Joan. It looks like they'll be eating well for a while.

They head out to the car, and he sighs with contended tiredness as he takes the passenger seat and Joan takes the back, drawing her legs up and leaning on the window. It's frosty even inside, and Morse cranks the heater as he pulls away through silent streets. He lets his hand fall to rest against Peter's leg, and he thinks about holding it and warming it through, but Morse needs it for changing gear. So he looks instead, studying Morse's profile as he drives. The way he darts his eyes sideways to catch Peter in the act, and the soft smile that blooms on his face when he looks back at the road.

They're back at Joan's in no time, and Morse pulls up to idle at the curb. They'd stayed over last night, after all, and she might not want them there again.

Joan stirs, yawns, and then freezes with her hand on the door latch. “You better both be coming up. I didn't leave to be alone.”

They're the first words spoken since they left, and they shatter any air of hesitation. Morse cuts the engine, and Peter swings himself up and out of the passenger seat. He uses his own key for Joan's door, hand reaching for the light switch in the darkness and flicking it upwards.

It's cold in the house, empty all day and no point leaving the heating on. He drops to his knees and starts a fire in the grate instead, coaxing flame from scrunched up newspaper until it catches on the kindling. It'll take a while for it to warm the room, and when he turns, Morse and Joan have already shed coats and found slippers and huddled under one of Joan's ratty double blankets on the couch. His own slippers – spare pair that have made a permanent home here, and that he somehow ends up wearing more than the main pair – are set neatly to one side for him.

He pulls them on, and slips under the blanket next to Morse. He encircles him with his arms, nudging his way in, and lets his fingertips grasp onto the soft fluff of Joan's jumper. He pokes his cold nose into Morse's neck, and grins as he squirms. All he wants for Christmas. Right here.

Joan leans, and it lets a gasp of cold air into their warming huddle. She falls back, and when she shifts to face them, it's with an impish smile. “Merry Christmas,” she says, holding a sprig of green and white above them.

Mistletoe.

Peter grins, and kisses her, feeling Morse's lips catch on his cheek.

Well, it is the season.


End file.
